Also invented by Rubeo’s company, a version of Diomedes was already in operation with Whiplash and the U.S. military. The Greek name was used only by Rubeo; the versions delivered to the military had extremely mundane designations like “gun bot 34MRU” and “WGR46TransportAssist,” which alluded to their ultimate use.

Diomedes was about half the size of a gas-powered lawn mower, with a squat, rounded hull that featured a flat payload area about twelve by eighteen inches in the back, and a broad mast area that looked a bit like the bridge superstructure from a modern destroyer. The skin was made of a thick, webbed resin composite, sturdy yet light. The motor, powered by hydrogen fuel cells, was extremely quiet. Diomedes could operate at full speed for sixteen hours without being refueled; in combat under normal operation, it might last a good week before needing a new fuel cell.

Unlike the smaller bot, Diomedes had two tanklike treads on either side of its rectangular body. Fore and aft of the tread systems were wheels that extended from large shafts. Ordinarily, the wheels remained retracted next to the transport bot’s hull, but when meeting an obstruction or if needed for balance or quick maneuvering, the bot extended them. This helped get the machine over small obstacles or balance on very difficult terrain. There were two armlike extensions at the front, and a miniature arm with a crane hook in the flat rear compartment.

Rubeo slid the sensor atop to the plastic holder, making sure the metal shielding was properly in place. The system was designed to ignore the fields generated by the bot, but he considered the shielding an important safeguard nonetheless.

Lawson was hovering nearby, watching. He was excited about the bots, which he called “little creatures.” He wasn’t actually in the way, but his lurking presence would have been annoying if he hadn’t been so enthusiastic.

Actually, it was annoying, but Rubeo let him stay anyway. The others were seeing to last minute details or guarding the area outside. Uncharacteristically, Rubeo felt the need for human company tonight.

He glanced at his watch as he snapped the last prong in place on Arachne. Clearly, they wouldn’t be able to get south before dawn—it was almost 5:00 P.M. now. The process had taken far longer than he thought it would.

His fault, really. He should have had more of his people here to help. He needn’t have done all the prep work himself.

Should he go to the hotel rooms they’d rented and get some sleep? Or sleep in the desert?

He’d ask Jons what he thought.

“So the spider creature walks right in to where we want it to go?” asked Lawson.

“When told to.” Rubeo went to the bench and took the control unit—a modified laptop—and brought it over to finish orienting Arachne. The unit had to be told what sensors it was carrying; once that was done, the process was fully automated and quick.

“How does it get in?”

“It will depend. If necessary, Diomedes will cut a hole through the wall,” said Rubeo. “Or do whatever is necessary.”

“Oh. I thought maybe it would, like, crawl up the drain spout or something.”

“It could, if there was a drain spout,” said Rubeo. “We haven’t seen an easy access. Diomedes will check the external perimeter, and if there is an easy access, we’ll use it. Cutting into the building is the last resort.”

“Because of the noise?”

“The saw is relatively quiet,” said Rubeo. “But because of that it works very slowly.”

“Are you a better weaver than Minerva?” Lawson asked the bot.

“I’m impressed,” said Rubeo. In Roman myth, Arachne was a weaver who was turned into a spider after her work outshone Minerva’s in a contest. Jealous, Minerva took revenge by changing her into a spider. “I didn’t know you knew the story.”

“Oh, I know my myths. That of course is the Latin version. There’s a parallel in Greek. Minerva would be Athena. Of course, this is all coming from Ovid, so who the hell knows what the real myth was.”

“You don’t trust Ovid?”

“Do I trust any poet? Hell, they lie for a living, right? For all I know, he was working for an extermination company when he came up with the tale.”

Rubeo laughed, unexpectedly amused by the mercenary soldier. He finished his work, unhooked the laptop, and placed the small robot inside a delivery compartment at the base of Diomedes. Then he keyed his access code into the larger computer, waking it up.

“Follow me,” he told the machine.

It did so, moving out to the pickups. One of the Filipinos had set up a ramp; Rubeo directed the machine to drive up it, into the back. Once there, he deactivated it and covered it with a tarp. Lawson helped tie it down.

Jons was in a parking area about three hundred yards away, talking with their helicopter pilot. Rubeo called him, telling him they were ready to leave. They discussed whether to go right away or not. For Jons, it was a no-brainer—better to move out as quickly as possible.

Lawson gathered the Filipinos. Halit had been dismissed. Abas was to stay with Kimmy, the helicopter pilot, in case they needed backup.

Jons suggested they tell the alliance what they were up to. Rubeo rejected the idea out of hand.

“They’ll only tell us not to,” he said.

Rubeo went to the front seat of the truck, brooding. He was fairly sure now that the Sabres hadn’t been interfered with from the ground, so why even bother going back?

Was the risk worth it for fifteen percent of doubt?

If that wasn’t the cause, though, what was? The sabotage theory seemed even more improbable.

His sat phone rang. Rubeo looked at the number, and at first he didn’t recognize it. But then the last name came up.

It was Kharon.

“This is Rubeo.”

“Ray, hi, say, um, I kind of need a little help.”

“What is it, Neil? What can I do?”

“Well . . . I kind of flew in to Tripoli and I got into a little problem at the airport. I was wondering if you could call one of your connections and maybe talk to them to get me sprung.”

“You’re in Tripoli?”

“Actually, I’m at passport control in the airport. I should be able to just go—it’s an open city, right? But they’re questioning my stamp from Italy. I guess the guy who stamped it there didn’t stamp it right.”

“Where are you?” asked Rubeo, still not quite believing what he had heard.

“Passport control. In the terminal. Tripoli. Maybe if, like, you could get one of the officials or somebody you work with—”

“Wait there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You? Here?”

“Just sit tight.”

Kharon hung up the phone. It had been easier than he thought.

“He’s on his way,” he told the passport officer. “You know what to say?”

“Of course.”

Kharon held up the one hundred euro note. The man eyed it greedily.

“Soon,” promised Kharon. “When you release me, I slip you the passport to stamp. It’ll be between the back pages.”

The man nodded. Bribing your way through customs was a time-honored practice in Tripoli.

A few minutes later Kharon spotted a dark-haired American strutting through the hallway as if he owned the place. He stopped and asked someone near the lobby for directions. The man pointed toward the small desk where Kharon and the customs agent were standing.

He sent one of his people, rather than coming himself. I should have known that.

“You Neil?” asked the man, spotting him. His voice was very loud, as he was shouting across the hall.

“It’s me,” said Kharon.

The man walked over, grinning. “Name’s Lawson. What’s the trouble?”

“Passport, this not correct,” said the customs agent quickly. His English was actually quite good, as Kharon had learned earlier; he used fractured grammar for effect.

“Well we can fix that, can’t we?” asked Lawson. He winked at Kharon. He switched to Arabic. It was a little stiff, but grammatically correct. “I have heard that the paperwork can be corrected on the spot by the proper authority,” Lawson said. “Naturally, there are fees involved.”